


Tinder: A Christmas Tale

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg loves baths, M/M, Mature might be an overreaction, Mycroft's just happy to spend Christmas with his brother, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018, Sherlock is a good brother, Uncle Mycroft, accidental Tinder usage, also a bastard but in a good way, background Johnlock, but finds Christmas hard, but there's the odd racy word, uncle Greg - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 18:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Greg Lestrade accidentally swipes right on Mycroft Holmes.It doesn't matter though, does it? Because he won't see unless he swipes right too, and there's no way - there's no way -The thing about Christmas, though, is that unexpected things happen.





	1. Christmas Eve

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how widespread [Christmas crackers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_cracker) are in the world. Please note, they're a small card construction with a present, a joke and a silly hat in. Well, I say 'joke'. Joke-like thing. Sometimes. If you're lucky.

“Well, Sherlock?” asks Mycroft, standing in the doorway of 221b. “Why have I braved the pre-Christmas London traffic _this_ time?”

Sherlock looks up from his seat at the table, where he and Rosie are drawing industriously. He doesn’t smile, but his eyebrow lifts interestedly. “Watson is fractious this afternoon. She expressed a wish to see you.”

Mycroft looks pointedly at the manifestly content Rosie. She grins at him and allows a huge blob of glitter glue to fall onto the centre of her drawing.

“And John and I have a case,” adds Sherlock. “The client wants us there as soon as possible. We may need to spend Christmas in Lancashire.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “And Rosamund?”

Sherlock waves a hand airily. “She’ll come with us, of course. It’s _Christmas,_ Mycroft. No, we simply need backup. Gavin tells me he’s working all Christmas. I need you to – rearrange that.”

Mycroft’s heart sinks. He has come rather to rely upon the annual 221b Christmas party, though he would never admit it. It is…rather festive. _Convivial._ Unlike the day itself, which he invariably spends working, alone.

“What makes you think I can rearrange the personnel scheduling of the London Met?”

Sherlock doesn’t even dignify that with an answer – merely a scathing look.

“Uncle My,” says Rosie. “Look at my picture!”

“Lovely, Rosamund,” he says absently.

“You didn’t look properly,” she says, disappointment dripping from every syllable.

He sighs and turns, leaning his umbrella against the wall. He hangs up his coat and steps across to the table.

“Here,” she beams, pointing to the chair next to her, its back to the door. “Would you like to do a picture too? We’re practising for Christmas cards, an’ I have _lots_ of glitter glue.”

“Indeed you do,” he says, with only slightly sardonic amusement. He takes a seat. _Partly my fault. I bought her some of these for her birthday._ “Is this the final design?”

“Tea?” asks Sherlock, springing up.

“Mm,” returns Mycroft, absently, and if it’s odd that his brother should be so welcoming, he puts it down to a sense of obligation in return for the favour of rearranging Lestrade’s working hours. _Not that Sherlock has ever felt grateful before_ –

“Do you think purple, Uncle My?” Rosie holds out the glitter glue tube solemnly.

It’s a few minutes until Sherlock returns with the tea, and that is when he says, “of course, we’ll also need childcare.”

Mycroft doesn’t look up. “I am sure that if you stay in a decent hotel they will be able to arrange it.”

“I’m not leaving Watson with some hired nanny.”

“Can Mrs Hudson go with you?”

“Going to her sister’s.”

Mycroft sighs, and frowns, throwing Sherlock a look. “That is your concern as a parent, Sherlock. Yours and Doctor Watson’s. Perhaps you should consider _not_ working on Christmas Day.”

_That’s rich, coming from you,_ says Sherlock’s quick half-smirk.

“We thought you should come with us,” says Sherlock, out loud.

Mycroft is almost startled into a laugh. “I am not your nanny, Sherlock.”

“You practically were.” The words are spoken lightly, but they deal Mycroft a near-physical blow.

Mycroft blinks; opens his mouth; closes it again. “What on earth makes you think I could entertain Rosamund for hours on end?” he asks, weakly.

Sherlock doesn’t answer; instead he looks at Rosie, and when Mycroft follows his gaze he finds her watching him, starry-eyed with happiness.

Mycroft looks back to Sherlock, who rolls his eyes and gives a tiny shrug that means _no accounting for taste._

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” sighs Mycroft, hiding his dazed smile in a gulp of tea. “Very well then. I must go.”

“Ooooohhhhww,” sighs Rosie, pouting.

“I have much to arrange, _chérie,”_ returns Mycroft, pulling on his coat. “Including, no doubt, a difficult conversation with the Chief Superintendent,” he adds, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugs. “I’ll text you the details of the hotel,” he says, entirely unrepentant.

“Of course,” returns Mycroft, with a side-swipe grimace. It’s a game: who gets the last word. And he struggles not to smile as he walks down the stairs, ensuring that he moves with his usual measured tread. _Christmas might be somewhat more acceptable than I had anticipated. And I can still work whenever Rosamund is asleep or absorbed in something._

*

“Oh, go on boss, you might as well,” laughs Sally, taking a sip of her third G&T. “What’ve you got to lose at this point? It’s just getting sad now.”

Greg rolls his eyes and glares at her. “Jesus, Sal, it’s not been that long –”

“Two years since the divorce. _And_ you were separated for two years before that.”

“Christ,” mutters Greg, glancing around the pub. It’s the Met’s Christmas drinks, and he’s standing at a table with Sally and their new DC, Sam. “D’you want to tell everyone a bit louder, Sergeant?”

Sally rolls her eyes. “I don’t _need_ to tell anyone, boss. Working every Christmas, stressed out all the time – you need to try _something._ And Sam’s –”

“Yeah, well Sam’s a lucky lad, isn’t he,” says Greg repressively, taking a gulp of his pint and looking away towards the bar.

“You make your own luck,” rejoins Sally, crossly.

“It’s really easy, sir,” says Sam, earnestly. “I can show you, on your phone, if –”

_Bloody graduate scheme,_ thinks Greg crossly. _It’s not that I don’t know how to. I just think dating’s bloody horrible._

“Honestly,” adds Sam. “I never thought I’d like it either, sir. But I only had a couple of dates and then I met Jenny, and we’re engaged now.” When Greg looks over at him the lad’s slightly flushed, happy and just a bit embarrassed from his little speech.

The earnest optimism is too much to bear. Greg sighs, and hands his phone over. “Go on then,” he says. “Put it on. But I’m not promisin’ to use it. An’ I don’t want you two houndin’ me about it.”

Happily, Sam starts downloading an app onto Greg’s phone. “Do you want Tinder Gold, sir? That lets you see if someone’s liked your pictures, then you can decide if you want to like theirs back –”

“Free, is it?” asks Greg.

“Oh – no, basic Tinder’s free but then you only see each other by chance if you both happen to like –”

“Not spending money on it,” mutters Greg, struggling not to sound grumpy. “Just – put the free one on. Like I say, ’m’not promisin’ to use it, anyway.”

“Jesus,” mutters Sally. “Merry Christmas and a Happy Fucking New Year, one and all.”

*

It’s next morning, as Greg’s nursing a hangover and a coffee at his desk, that his phone rings.

_Oh, Jesus. Mycroft. What’s this going to be?_

“Mycroft,” he says, tersely, making a point of using the man’s first name. He’s been on the receiving end of too much Holmesian snark over the years not to play the occasional petty point-scoring game.

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft sounds tired and stressed. He takes a breath. “I am afraid I have some – I assume – rather bad news. At Sherlock’s behest your Christmas plans have been rearranged.”

Greg blinks, then rolls his eyes. “You mean _you_ rearranged them.”

“Yes.” The other man’s voice is blank, his habitual response to aggression of any kind. “Sherlock and Doctor Watson have a case, in Lancashire. They wish you to be in attendance.”

Greg sighs. “I don’t bloody know why. I can’t do anythin’ official when I’m not on my patch. They know that. _You_ know that. So why do I still get roped in, every bloody time?”

“For many years, Detective Inspector, I have found it expedient to pick my battles with my brother.”

“An’ my time isn’t worth a battle.” It’s not even a question. Greg’s just grumpy, tired, and feeling slightly sick.

“You were planning to work in any case, Lestrade.” Mycroft doesn’t sound angry, or even snarky. Just blank.

Greg’s suddenly sorry for starting this argument; sorry for making what must be a difficult conversation worse. He’s backed into a corner now, though. “Yeah, at _my_ caseload. Gettin’ stuff done that’s useful for my _actual_ career.” He sighs. “Never mind. Where am I going an’ when?”

“My assistant will send you the details.”

_Why did you even call, then?_ thinks Greg crossly, but he knows the answer really. _A courtesy. He’s not a coward, whatever else he might be._

“Alright.” Greg bites his lip. “Well. Hope you have a good Christmas, Mycroft.”

“You too, Detective Inspector.”

The call cuts before Greg can ask how Mycroft is planning to spend it, and he’s left with an unpleasant heavy feeling in his stomach that’s only half to do with the hangover.

Briefly, he debates sending Mycroft a text: _sorry for being a twat. It’s the time of year. Somehow ‘alone’ feels a lot more like ‘lonely’._

Not a good idea though. Not a good idea at all.

*

The hotel is, Greg has to admit, brilliant. His room isn’t massive, but it’s pure luxury from top to bottom; a huge king-size bed, a wide flat-screen TV, and a bathroom with a large rain shower as well as a deep cast-iron bath. There aren’t even that many stupid little cushions on the bed, and the cleaning staff don’t insist on putting them back on when he throws them into the nearest chair.

The bath though – the _bath._ It’s ages since he had a proper bath. His little flat doesn’t have one. They’ve even given him a candle. He uses it every evening, and when he goes to bed, he sleeps like the dead. He actually reads a book, for the first time in months.

The case is an interesting one – a lost family heirloom that may point to a wider plot on the part of the client’s business partner to take over the family business by stealth. It’s weird though, tagging along. He wonders if this is how John always feels.

_At least I can remind Sherlock every time it looks like he’s about to contaminate evidence,_ he thinks, with a slightly rueful smile. _That’s my big job this Christmas._

He adds more hot water to the bath, sighs luxuriously, and sinks down into the water.

_Best fucking Christmas I’ve had in years._

*

Mycroft keeps himself to himself. Spending plenty of time with Rosie, he does not particularly fancy family dinners, though he supposes it will be expected on Christmas Day.

He’s also relatively keen not to run into Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had made his displeasure acutely evident on the phone. Mycroft has no desire to incur his ire in person. He stays in his suite much of the time, venturing out when he is sure that Sherlock, Dr Watson and Lestrade are out on the case.

The staff are kind to Rosamund. She and Mycroft take afternoon tea with all ceremony in front of the fire in the hotel parlour. On the second day, the chef makes her some tiny fairy cakes to serve alongside the scones. She learns how to preside over tea with a positively regal air.

They speak French together, and read; when she gets bored and restless, he times her runs up and down the terrace. They create a pirate map, and a choose-your-own adventure book to go alongside it. His heart swells with pride at the sight of it; at the details she invents for the story.

The weather is merely damp at the moment, the Lancashire countryside brown and foggy with chilly drizzle. She’s disappointed about the lack of snow, but there are some things Mycroft Holmes _can’t_ arrange for his niece.

*

It’s Christmas Eve, and John and Sherlock have taken Rosie out for dinner in Blackburn. John had winked at Greg and told him he’d got tickets for the pantomime, too, but he won’t be telling Sherlock until they’re already inside the theatre.

Greg’s in the bar, sitting in the window seat, looking out into the dark. Full from dinner, he’s on his second glass of whisky. His pale reflection in the glass looks sad. _Haggard,_ he thinks. _Jesus, I look old. And I’ve been getting more sleep than I usually do. I must look fucking awful, most days._

_No wonder Em decided to look elsewhere._

He winces, and fishes his phone out of his pocket. With a heavy sense of dread, he taps the small red flame icon. _Christ. Am I really doing this?_

The first bit’s easy; he creates a basic profile, with some pictures taken the last time his sister and her family visited. He’d been smiling then; and despite the grey hair, he looks years younger than his reflection in the window.

_Shame about the grey hair. Oh well._

He looks at the next option.

**Looking for: Women / Men / Anyone**

His thumb hovers, for a moment. Nonsensically, his heart gives an extra thump as he clicks on ‘Anyone’. Anticipation and excitement run like electricity down his spine. _Wonder what Sam and Sally would think if they knew,_ he thinks. _Been a long fucking time._

The app explains: look at people’s pictures; swipe right for yes, and left for no.

_As if you can tell a thing about them from that except whether you want to fuck them or not._

_I wonder if Em used this for_ –

He doesn’t like it, at first. It feels basically _nasty,_ trying to select someone based on looks alone. But the photos cycle endlessly, and it becomes almost hypnotic – _left, left, right, left, hesitate – kind eyes, right, left, left, left, left, right_ –

_Fuck._

_Oh, fuck._

That last one was – that was _Mycroft._

_Oh, fuck._

_What the fuck is Mycroft fucking Holmes doing on fucking Tinder, anyway?_

_Oh, Jesus Christ._

Chilling realisation squeezes at Greg’s heart.

_It’s alright. It’s alright. Unless he’s got that Gold thing Sam was on about it’s not like he’ll be able to tell. Unless he swipes right on me, ha fucking ha. As if._

_Is he even into men? Or anyone?_

_Well, he must be, if he’s on Tinder._

_But – he’s basically a spy, isn’t he? He wouldn’t – he –_

_Jesus. Must be Sherlock._ Greg could almost laugh, if it weren’t for the fact that his heart’s still pounding with adrenaline.

He’s always known he’d love to fuck Mycroft Holmes.

From the very first moment, in that warehouse, he’d’ve loved to tousle that neat hair, kiss and bite that clever mouth into redness, rip off every perfectly-tailored part of that impeccable suit.

But he’d been a married man, and things were complicated; and knowing Sherlock, seeing Mycroft tearing himself apart piece by piece as Sherlock fell to bits – it’d just complicated everything further.

It’s been years, now, of a kind of precarious peace between them all, brought about by John and little Rosie.

Greg rubs a hand over his eyes, and up through his hair; takes a breath, loosening the knot of tension in his chest. He looks towards the bar, thinking about getting another whisky.

Which is when he sees Mycroft sitting, legs crossed, in an armchair next to the crackling log fire. He’s staring at the screen of his phone, eyebrows raised.

The adrenaline slams through Greg again, bone-deep.

_He must like men, then, must’ve chosen that option in the app otherwise it wouldn’t’ve shown it to him – oh fuck does he know I’m here – why is he here – what’s he going to say – how are we going to carry on from here, this is going to be awkward forever_ –

Mycroft blinks, three times, seemingly absolutely flabbergasted.

Time seems both terribly slow and horribly fast. Greg wonders if he can just get up and walk back to his room; lock the door and possibly never, ever come out.

In slow motion, Mycroft looks up, and meets Greg’s eyes.

Greg can’t tell what he’s thinking; his expression is a total blank, and his eyes are black, flickering with firelight.

Slowly, Mycroft stands up. He walks to the window seat, his movements just slightly less graceful than usual. He stands next to Greg, awkward.

“My apologies for disturbing you, Detective Inspector,” he says, voice lowered. “Perhaps it would be best if we speak in my suite, just for a moment.”

Numbly, Greg nods. “Yeah, alright.” He stands up, suddenly unsure whether his knees are going to support him. It feels like being sent to the headmaster’s office.

The walk along the corridors is strange. Odd details stand out, nightmarishly bright: the pattern of the wallpaper; the shape of the door handles. _It’s alright, though. He’s just going to give me a talking to. I’ll point out it was – well, sort of an accident. It’ll be awkward, but his PA’ll send me whatever he needs me to do, like she does anyway. Nothing’ll change._

_Tomorrow’s Christmas, and I’ll probably have to sit opposite him at lunch._

_Christ._

Mycroft opens the door to his suite, and ushers Greg in; points him to the right, towards a small private sitting room. There’s a log fire in here too, though it’s not lit.

Greg perches on an armchair. He’s not sure he can get through this standing.

Mycroft busies himself with the fire, kneeling with his back to Greg, striking a match and holding it to the firelighters. “I apologise for bringing you here,” he says, quietly. “I merely wished to talk in private, to – assure you that no word of this shall pass my lips. I was not aware, as I am sure you have surmised, that I had been subscribed to this – service.”

“Sherlock,” says Greg, numbly. “Yeah. Prank, I s’pose.”

“We must assume so.”

“’M’not –” Greg swallows. _What the fuck are you doing?_ “’M’not – really on it either,” he mumbles. “The other week – in the pub. My workmates were – they said I should – an’ I only just –” he subsides into silence. “Anyway. Never mind. You’re a gent. If you don’t mind – let’s just never –”

Mycroft stands up, dropping the used match into the slowly-catching fire. “Naturally.” He does not make eye contact, moving to the mini bar next. “And I apologise for what must have been a terrible shock. I had not observed you in the window seat or I should not have lingered in the bar.”

Greg tries to laugh. “Yeah. Still, at least I know my heart’s in good nick. Must be, or I’d definitely be in an ambulance by now.”

If Mycroft makes any reply, Greg doesn’t hear it. He’s waiting for something, _anything_ else. _Is that it? We’re just going to pretend it never happened? And he’s alright with that?_ For some reason, he’d thought Mycroft would be angry.

Then: _hang on._

“What d’you mean you wouldn’t’ve hung around in the bar if you’d seen me?” He blinks, disorientated by the aftermath of adrenaline and all the competing calls on his attention. “How long’ve you been here?”

“I arrived on Friday evening, as you did,” says Mycroft quietly, pouring himself a whisky. His back’s still turned.

“Why haven’t I seen you?” asks Greg, confused.

One of Mycroft’s shoulders rises in what might be a slight shrug. “I have had plenty to occupy me. Work. An ample suite, as you see. Rosamund and I have been busy.”

Greg takes a breath. _“You’re_ looking after Rosie,” he says. “I thought John and Sherlock must’ve arranged for the hotel to…” he stops, and stares at the fire. Everything seems lightly surreal, just now. “An’ you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Oh – no,” says Mycroft.

_For a spy, he’s pretty shit at lying._

“Is this because I was a twat on the phone, when you rang to tell me about all this?” asks Greg. “I wanted to – I should’ve texted you to say sorry. I was hungover, and pissed off. This time of year’s shit. I hate it. Took it out on you.”

There’s a short, stunned silence.

“An’ I’m really, _really_ sorry about the Tinder thing, I –”

Mycroft turns, holding a tumbler of whisky. He gestures slightly. “Please, Detective Inspector. Do not mention it. I understand entirely. A new application, a slip of the finger –”

Greg almost laughs. His heart’s pounding. “What?” _He thinks it was a mistake._

“A simple error –”

“Oh, Jesus.” Greg rubs his hand over his face. “No. I mean, I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with the embarrassment of it but – it wasn’t a mistake. I just didn’t realise it was _you_ until I’d already –” he swallows, and tips his head. “Please, think of the least insulting way to take that. It wasn’t meant to be – y’know.”

Mycroft looks as though he’s suppressing a smile. “I understand. Thank you, Lestrade.”

“Anyway. What’m saying is, it was just – automatic. I know you’re not – this wouldn’t be – so it makes it inconvenient. But. It wasn’t – a mistake.”

The air is heavy with silence. Mycroft blinks, several times. The fire crackles; a log shifts.

“In short, you are saying that – based on appearance alone – you…” he doesn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.

Their eyes meet. Mycroft’s are grey, usually; in this light, they are black.

“I just – know you wouldn’t –” says Greg, and swallows. “So.”

“Oh,” says Mycroft, and it’s just a breath.

Greg wonders if Mycroft can hear his heart thundering in his chest.

“Perhaps – for tonight – I would.” The words seem forced from Mycroft’s throat; Greg can hear the effort it costs him.

The world seems to reel very gently around Greg. He takes a breath. _Fuck._

“Can I offer you a drink, Lestrade?” asks Mycroft, and those words sound easier.

“No.” Greg’s voice is just a croak. He steps closer, not quite in touch with his body or what he’s doing; and suddenly he’s in Mycroft’s space, but Mycroft isn’t moving away, he’s standing still, real and warm and so very _human_ –

Greg pushes up on tiptoe, eyes closing, and when their lips brush he presses the nails of his right hand into his palm to check for reality.

Tentatively, he raises his left hand to Mycroft’s chest; places it over where his heart must be beating, the soft wool of the forest-green jumper luxurious beneath his fingertips. He kisses Mycroft a little more deeply, caught, held by the sensation of pliant lips beneath his own, of soft responses to his every move, the taste of whisky on Mycroft’s tongue –

They part, and Greg opens his eyes; looks up. “Fuck,” he whispers, with a dazed smile, trying to take in every detail of Mycroft’s face. He’s still half-convinced this can’t possibly be happening.

Mycroft’s cheeks are pink; he bites his lip. “Lestrade –”

“Greg,” murmurs Greg, pressing a kiss to the corner of Mycroft’s lips. “Please.”

Mycroft blinks. “I do not do – this –”

“Oh, fuck,” says Greg, on a half-panicky laugh. “Jesus, Mycroft, neither do I. You have no idea how much – really – not.”

Mycroft can’t seem to help a quick huff of amusement at that. Their hands have found one another. Greg takes the whisky glass and puts it down on a small table nearby, then tangles their fingers together.

They breathe, watching one another; and then Greg kisses him again, more surely this time, teeth teasing Mycroft’s bottom lip, tongue soothing the places he bites. “I want this, though, ’f’you do?” he murmurs, when they pull apart.

Mycroft nods, a deeper flush staining his cheeks. “Please.” He sounds so reserved, but the way he kisses tells a different story; and everything about him has Greg harder than he has been in years.

“C’n we go to bed?”

Mycroft nods again, and takes his hand. “I am likely to be – out of practice, Det–” he takes a breath. “Greg.”

“God. Me too.” Greg smiles at him. “We’ve got all night though, right?”

Mycroft dips his head; looks up at him through his eyelashes. “Yes.”

*

“If that’s you out of practice…” murmurs Greg, running his fingertips softly over Mycroft’s ribs. The suite is up in the eaves, wooden beams curving above them. The curtains are still open, showing the occasional sliver of moonlight through low grey clouds.

They are sated, and sticky.

“I might say the same to you.” Mycroft’s hair is in disarray, his eyes bright; a troublesome smile tugs insistently at the corners of his mouth, though he seems to be trying to suppress it.

Greg’s heart aches with affection at the sight.

“’S’your bath as amazing as mine?” he asks, on a whim.

“I should imagine so.” Mycroft’s grey eyes are inquiring.

“Plenty of room for two, then,” says Greg, with a smile. “’F’you fancy it.”

Mycroft blinks, then smiles. “Yes.”

Greg catches sight of the bedside clock as he sits up. “Hey. ’S’just after midnight. Happy Christmas, Mycroft.”

“Merry Christmas, Greg.”

Greg looks round at him; grins, and leans down for a kiss. “You called me ‘Gregory’ as you came.”

Mycroft’s cheeks flush deep pink. “My apol–”

Greg stops him with a deep, forceful kiss. “Mycroft Holmes, don’t you dare _apologise.”_ He nuzzles at Mycroft’s jaw, then places a kiss on his earlobe. “What’s the betting I can make you call me it again before breakfast?”

Mycroft groans, low in his throat. “I certainly should not bet against you.”

“Hmm,” smiles Greg, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s neck. “Good. Talkin’ of breakfast – ’m’I allowed to stay for it?”

Mycroft blinks. “Of course, if you –”

Greg places one last kiss on the tip of Mycroft’s nose, and starts clambering towards the edge of the bed. “Sounds good. D’you want to fill out the breakfast card while I get the bath going? We have to put it on the door by two.”

“What would you like?” asks Mycroft, as Greg heads for the bathroom.

“Pretty much everythin’, I should think,” grins Greg. “You’re tiring me out, Mycroft.”

*

“You got something wrong, earlier,” murmurs Greg. It’s nearly four, and they’re curled together in a nest of the enormous white duvet.

Mycroft’s eyelids are heavy; his lips are still red, slightly swollen from all their kisses. “Mm?” he murmurs, eyebrow twitching.

“You said – it was just appearance. This. Me – wantin’ you.”

Mycroft’s brows draw together, ever so slightly.

“It’s – not. Just that.” Greg bites his lip. “I’ll understand if it’s just tonight. This’s been – fuck, Mycroft. _Gorgeous._ But – if you didn’t want it to be…” he takes a breath. “Well. You know where I am, when we get back.” He runs his thumb gently along Mycroft’s jawline. “Don’t feel like you have to decide now. Give it some thought. I’d – always want to hear from you.”

Mycroft blinks, sleepily, then leans in to brush his lips against Greg’s. “I should enjoy that, Gregory.”

Greg smiles, and then grins as the meaning behind his words sinks in. “Alright. Yeah. Good.” He kisses Mycroft once more. “Go to sleep, mister. ’S’Christmas in the morning.”


	2. Christmas Day

Mycroft wakes to a hand on his shoulder; to lips against his cheek.

“Mycroft? Mycroft.”

Mycroft groans, softly, and brings a hand up to rub his eyes. _Gregory. Gregory is – of course. Last night. Breakfast._

“Rosie’s at the door,” whispers Greg. “Didn’t want to wake you, but – ’f’i answer it –”

Mycroft sits up, suddenly very awake. “What on earth time is it?” he murmurs, pushing back the duvet.

“Six thirty,” whispers Greg, and he’s stifling a giggle now, brown eyes sparkling.

_How the hell can he look like – that – on two hours’ sleep?_ Mycroft reaches for the white towelling robe on his bedside chair and pulls it around himself, rather self-conscious in the grey pre-dawn light. He wraps it tight, tying the sash with brisk movements. He feels shaky and lightheaded with tiredness; strange, given that he is well used to going without sleep.

_Lots of vigorous exercise,_ supplies his brain, unhelpfully. _All night._

“Myc – Myc, hang on,” hisses Greg as Mycroft heads for the door. “Um –” he kneels up in bed, beckoning Mycroft closer. His hands smooth through Mycroft’s hair; turning up the collar of the robe, he pulls it closer to Mycroft’s neck. “I…might’ve got a bit carried away,” he says, eyes wide and full of fun. “Nothing a shirt wouldn’t normally cover,” he adds, “– but, um, like that’s prob'ly –” he gestures to the robe.

“Oh good gods,” murmurs Mycroft, gathering the collar in his right hand and holding it up around his neck. He turns away.

It’s there again: his inconvenient desire for this man. Gregory is so unselfconsciously naked in Mycroft’s bed; and so generous – Mycroft has discovered – in his commitment to giving and taking pleasure.

Mycroft shuts the bedroom door firmly behind himself.

“Uncle My!” Rosie knocks again at the suite door.

_Thank all that is good that she does not have a keycard._

Mycroft opens the suite door, not losing hold on the robe drawn up around his neck. “Rosamund?”

“Merry Christmas Uncle My!” she throws her arms around his waist, then draws back. “Were you asleep?”

“Yes. I – yes.”

“Oh.” The little girl looks surprised. “’Cause it’s Christmas? Normally you’d’ve been up for ages by now.” She blinks up at him, eyes wide and cornflower blue.

“A rare opportunity,” says Mycroft, with a gentle smile.

“Would you like your present?” she asks. “I c'n get it if you like –”

“No, my dear. There will be time later, I am sure, for an exchange of presents. Have you seen your fathers?”

She sighs. “They were still asleep. Dad told me to come'n see you.”

“Ah.” Mycroft fights the urge to look to the bedroom door. _Dare I let her into the sitting room? Surely the danger of her going into the bedroom without warning is too great –_

She sighs, appearing to resign herself to his need for sleep. “C'n I watch Netflix in my room?” she asks. “They’ve got it on the TV.”

Mycroft tries to stop his eyebrow ticking up. “You may. The young people’s account, please.”

“What time will you be up?” she asks, and he marvels again at the small certainties she needs, the way she relies so completely on him to be _present._

He still cannot quite adjust to the uncomplicated way in which she needs him.

“We gather in the bar at midday for drinks before lunch,” he says. “I shall certainly be –” he trails off; blinks. _Oh dear God. Christmas lunch._ His heart pangs with nerves.

Rosie gives him a strange, concerned look. “Will you come'n see me if you wake up?” she asks. “Dad and Papa’ll prob'ly be up in a bit, but…” she brightens. “Maybe Uncle Greg’ll want to go for a walk.”

“Ah –” Mycroft stops; clears his throat. “It is – still early, Rosamund. Perhaps it would be best to wait – a few hours, before…”

She sighs, and nods. “Alright.” Abruptly, she turns and heads back along the corridor.

He watches her safely into her room, then closes the door, locking it. His heart thumps hard in his chest. He rests his head against the door.

“Myc?” There are hands at Mycroft’s waist; stroking long gentle paths along his sides. “She alright?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, then another.

“Are _you_ alright?” asks Greg, humour and concern mingled in his voice.

“I –” Mycroft tries, embarrassed. He breathes; rubs his eyes. “Have just been reminded that an entire Christmas Day lies before us. At the mercy of my brother.”

Greg’s laugh is soft and warm; his hands slide to Mycroft’s shoulders and he turns him, pushing him towards the bedroom. “Look, I know sitting over lunch with Sir Deduce-a-Lot sounds a bit stressful right now, but we’ve only had two hours’ sleep. Let’s just…get some more, til the breakfast gets here.” Greg steps in front of him, strong-fingered hands at the belt of Mycroft’s robe. “C'mon.”

Weakly, Mycroft allows the robe to be pushed from his high, tense shoulders; allows gentle hands to draw him back into bed.

_Gregory prefers the left side._ The preference is clear, even after only one night.

“Sherlock is –” Mycroft swallows. “Unerring. In his ability to…”

“D'you think I don’t know that?” asks Greg, a rueful huff of laughter against Mycroft’s temple. “Even setting aside the – er – with my ex, he deduces every bloody date I have. Every time.”

Greg’s skin is warm with sleep; luxuriously soft and tanned. Mycroft wants him again, suddenly, in a way that makes his chest ache.

_Every date I have._

“Anyway,” says Greg, kissing Mycroft’s hairline, “think about it. What can he _actually_ do? Yeah, he’s Sherlock, he’ll make a fuss probably. But he’s not going to say anything too bad in front of little Rosie. He’s not like that, not really.”

Mycroft’s stomach squirms. He blinks. “I –” he hesitates. “He will see it as a betrayal, Gregory. An attempt on my part to co-opt his friend.”

Greg huffs amusement; shifts so that they are sharing a pillow, looking at one another. It feels suddenly, unbearably intimate. “He knows we work together half the time anyway. Cases, an’ looking after him, too, the daft sod. He _knows_ that.”

Mycroft presses his lips together; nods, miserably.

“Christ, Myc.” Greg sounds surprised. “You’re really worried about this.”

_Myc._

Mycroft keeps his gaze low.

“Hey,” says Greg, gently. “He’s that good at this stuff – I’d be surprised if he hadn’t noticed me lookin’ at you.”

Mycroft’s gaze snaps up; he frowns, checking for sincerity in those deep brown eyes.

Gregory simply allows him to look.

Mycroft tries to keep his own expression in check, but clearly he fails.

Greg nods. “Yeah. Haven’t _you_ noticed?” he smiles, then adds, “want to hear a secret? Sherlock always says you’re better at noticin’ stuff than he is.”

Slowly, Mycroft shakes his head. “I – had not.”

“You just sayin’ that? Or…”

Mycroft takes a breath; raises an eyebrow in sardonic amusement. “I should never, before last night, have presumed to imagine that a man such as you would…” he raises one shoulder in a quick half-shrug.

“‘Such as me’?” asks Greg. He doesn’t sound offended; just interested.

The easy camaraderie of the conversation – the way truth is told here, so openly, so guilelessly – is shocking to Mycroft. His heart beats strong and fast in his chest.

“You are easily the most exquisitely attractive man of my acquaintance.”

_Beautiful. If I had told the whole truth, I should have said – beautiful._

Greg’s surprise shows in his eyes; in the way his breath catches. “Oh.”

_Too much. Naturally._ Mycroft looks down, then away.

Greg’s forehead nudges his. Mycroft remembers the second time they came, last night; shivering, kissing, crying out into one other’s mouths, pressing their foreheads together –

“I’ve wanted you for years.” Greg’s voice is strong and sure.

Slowly, Mycroft pulls back; watches him, his eyes, his lips.

“Fucking years, Mycroft.”

_Why?_

“And – and I you.”

“Christ.” Greg takes a breath. “Don’t stop this. When we get back home, I mean. Let’s –” he shrugs. “We can make this good.”

Mycroft blinks. “You ascribe me too much power, Gregory. To ‘stop this’.”

Greg gives him a knowing look. “You could, Myc. You could disappear off an’ I might never see you again. Like – like when –” he swallows. “Y'know.”

_When Sherlock was away._

“I could not – then.” Mycroft frowns, slightly. _Please understand._

Greg’s hand comes to rest softly at the centre of Mycroft’s chest. “I get it. I jus’ mean – I know how it could be.”

“You wish to continue to meet for – for sex,” says Mycroft, with every appearance of calm.

“Yeah.” Greg clears his throat, slightly. “Actually, I –” he sighs. “At Christmas, you tell the truth, right?”

“We appear to have done, so far. To an almost terrifying extent,” says Mycroft, rather sardonically.

Greg huffs a laugh. “Right. Well – I’m just going to carry on, for a minute.”

Mycroft’s heart lurches. “Very well.”

“I – I wouldn’t just be hopin’ for that, if I’m honest.” His eyes flick across Mycroft’s face; he licks his lips, then continues. “Look, I’m old enough to know myself now. I’m not particularly good at the whole – shagging around thing.” He grins, a bit guiltily. “I know it may not seem like that, after last night, but – I’m not. An’ – an’ you might not agree but I think – after a while, if we’re open to it – I think there could be more, between us. Than just…shagging.”

Mycroft is fairly sure that Greg must be able to hear the wild beating of his heart. Blood rushes in his ears. “More,” he says, slowly.

“Yeah. Like…dating. You know.”

Mycroft blinks. “I am hardly an eligible candidate for a relationship, Gregory.”

“No?” asks Greg. There’s a pause. “I mean – I’m not trying to put pressure, push you or anythin’. But we’ve always worked well together. Not just – work. The other stuff. Sherlock.”

“You have always been kind.” Mycroft murmurs it absently.

“I’m freaking you out,” says Gregory. Gently, he touches Mycroft’s chin. “I just mean – if you want to, I don’t mind – I’d want to, I mean – see where this goes. Could go.”

“Work is –”

Greg shrugs. “Yeah. Mine too.”

“Sherlock –”

“He’s going to know, after today. But he’s got his own family, Mycroft. An’ –” Greg smiles. “He did invite you along to Christmas, didn’t he?”

“As childcare, merely –”

“Oh, come on. They could’ve hired someone.”

Mycroft blinks. Opens his mouth, and closes it again.

“It’s not something we – _you_ have to decide about,” says Greg. “Just – you should know, I s'pose. If you end up just wanting to fuck, then – well. We seem to be good at that.”

Mycroft can feel his own cheeks heat. “It would seem so.”

“Talkin’ of which…” Greg grins, devilishly, and begins to wriggle down the bed, kissing Mycroft’s chest and stomach. He pushes the duvet back as he goes.

“This is, I am afraid, misguidedly optimistic,” says Mycroft, attempting to suppress a smile. He watches Greg’s lips skim across his stomach to his hipbone.

Greg grins, looking up at him with those deep brown eyes. “Well, you know me. I’m nothin’ if not an optimist.”

*

Breakfast is quiet and companionable, sitting in bed; every time Mycroft finishes a cup of tea, Greg pours him another.

When Greg has to leave to get ready, he kisses Mycroft as though he may never see him again.

Mycroft showers in a daze. He makes himself ready to face the world with more iron precision even than usual; and picks a grey tweed suit that speaks only of duty and tradition.

He ensures that his present for Rosamund is in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. After midday, he wastes as much time as possible completing a few work emails. _They are unlikely to serve lunch until at least half past twelve,_ he reasons. _There is no harm in remaining here a little longer._

It is cowardly, he knows; to postpone the moment of his brother’s realisation in this manner. But he dreads Sherlock’s reaction: the initial fear of betrayal, and the behaviour which will ensue. Disgust, no doubt, and talk of Mycroft’s sparse romantic history; revelations of boyhood humiliations, of a young man as shy and gauche in his sexuality as he was precocious in his academic achievements.

And then another, rather more horrible, thought occurs: Gregory, in the bar with Sherlock and John and Rosamund, the sole focus of Sherlock’s chagrin. _He will read it on him immediately._ Mycroft stands up, suddenly, shutting his laptop. He locks it away in the safe, and hurries to the door, checking for his keycard on the way. _Generous, beautiful, courageous Gregory, tormented by Sherlock for nothing more than a night of my company_ –

_Not to be borne._

In the bar, soft strings versions of Christmas carols play; the Christmas tree sparkles, heavy with decorations.

Mycroft accepts a glass of champagne from a waiter as he enters, and crosses to the window where his group stands.

Rosie grins at him, face glowing with Christmas happiness and excitement. “You’re late, Uncle My.”

“A few work matters,” he murmurs, vaguely. He can feel his cheeks warming, a hateful, telltale blush threatening. He steels himself to look up.

Greg’s eyes are the ones that meet Mycroft’s first; dark and eager, crinkled slightly with a warm smile.

It gives Mycroft strength, somehow. He draws his shoulders back, standing tall.

“Perhaps you should consider _not_ working on Christmas Day, brother dear,” says Sherlock, sweetly.

And suddenly, Mycroft remembers: glitter glue, handmade Christmas cards, and a surprising offer of tea – a little slowly-made, perhaps, but Mycroft had not been concentrating.

He finds Sherlock’s silver eyes. _You. You put that application on my phone. I knew you had, and now I know when._

Sherlock’s expression is falsely, extravagantly innocent. _I have no idea what you mean._ “It’s so un-Christmassy to spend the morning starting wars.”

“Small administrative matters, Sherlock, nothing more. You have the strangest impression of my role.”

“Will there be crackers, Daddy?” Rosie’s hanging on John’s arm, practically bouncing with excitement. “What time are we doing presents?”

John gives a quick, wry smile. “You’d think there’d be crackers, given the expense of this place.”

Greg grins. “Bloody hell, yeah. Poshest Christmas _I’ve_ ever had.”

“Yeah, well, you mostly spend Christmas at Scotland Yard,” says John. “So that’s not much of a surprise.”

“Oi,” returns Greg. “At least I’ve never spent Christmas Day locked in a walk-in freezer because my husband’s _insane.”_

John shrugs. “True. Still.” He catches Sherlock’s eye. “We shared warmth.”

Mycroft grimaces, and Greg sighs.

“Yeah, I know you did. Who bloody found you and got you out, in the end? Still, you both damn near got hypothermia.”

“What’s hypothermia?” asks Rosie, curiously.

Sherlock’s just opening his mouth to answer when John speaks across him. “We thought we’d do presents after lunch, love. In our suite.”

Mycroft fights to stop himself staring at Greg’s fingers on the champagne glass; struggles to keep his mind focused here and now. He drifts, for a moment, back to the night; to the skillful, gentle touches of those strong fingers –

“’Fraid I didn’t get you two anythin’,” says Greg. “Me bein’ here. That’s your present.”

“Did you get _me_ anything, Uncle Greg?” asks Rosie, her small hand stealing into his.

He grins. “Wait’n see, monkey.”

“And have you closed your case?” asks Mycroft.

“Not quite,” returns Sherlock. “Perhaps two more days.”

Mycroft’s stomach flutters. He doesn’t look at Greg.

“I see. You are aware I cannot remain here indefinitely? I imagine the same is true for the Detective Inspector.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Oh, I dunno,” says Greg amiably. “I could get used to this. Sherlock an’ John paying for me to tag along after ’em and take long lazy baths in the evenin’. Think I’ll come on more of your cases with you from now on. Definitely a _lot_ more perks than workin’ for the Met.”

John sighs. “We can’t afford you, mate.”

Greg laughs. While they’re talking, he’s allowing Rosie to hold his hands; lifting her a little as she jumps. “An’ what’s Sherlock going to do when I retire, hmm? Finally play nice with Sally?”

_“Retire?”_ Sherlock sounds appalled, his nose crinkled with confused disgust.

“Only a couple more years til my thirty,” shrugs Greg. “You know I can go anytime after that, on full pension. Imagine they’ll be only too keen to get rid of me.”

Sherlock looks dumbfounded. “You have the best clear-up rate in the Met,” he scoffs.

“Yeah, but you know that’s just you,” laughs Greg. “An’ anyway, doesn’t really matter. They like to keep things moving in the ranks. Want new blood to come through. Weed out the old ones, bring up the grad schemers.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Yeah, but what do you want?” asks John. He looks just as surprised as Sherlock. “You don’t really want to retire, do you?” He smirks. “You’re not _that_ old.”

“Great. Thanks.” Greg laughs, catching Rosie as she nearly falls. “Hey, monkey, you don’t want bloody knees on Christmas.”

Mycroft watches, silent; tries to imagine Greg, not a policeman. His sense of the man has shifted so dramatically in less than twenty-four hours that he almost doesn’t find it strange at all.

Sherlock’s just about to comment again when a gong is sounded; and groups of people draw together, chatting and laughing, anticipating their gourmet Christmas lunch.

The dining room gleams green and gold; fresh holly hangs everywhere.

Sherlock, John and Rosie walk through first. There’s a sprig of mistletoe above the dining room door, and Greg turns quickly as he walks underneath it; catches Mycroft’s gaze. The spark of raw longing in his dark eyes almost makes Mycroft gasp.

_I too, Gregory._

Their table is round; the linen is crisp and thick. There are crackers, heavy and embossed with gold. Rosie brandishes hers immediately, holding it out to Mycroft.

He slips long fingers into the end he is proffered. _Hmm. It is more likely to favour me._ He takes it and turns it; with a loose grip, he pulls as she giggles and leans back, pulling at the other end. The cracker contents explode across the table, depositing a purple hat in front of Greg, a magnifying glass next to Sherlock’s plate, and the joke on Mycroft’s knee.

He passes it to Rosie, carefully not looking.

She reads it, frowning, then leans against Mycroft’s arm. “I don’t understand why it’s funny, Uncle My.” She shows him the slip of paper.

He raises one eyebrow. “I am not sure anyone will, my dear.”

“Come on, don’t tease us,” says Greg, grinning.

Mycroft leans down and whispers a pronunciation in Rosie’s ear.

“What does Santa suffer from if he gets stuck in the chimney?” she asks, tentatively.

Sherlock frowns, fingers together in front of his lips. John and Greg look at one another, then John says, “go on then, love. What does Santa suffer from?”

“Claus-trophobia,” she says, carefully, looking up to Mycroft to see whether she has pronounced it right.

The chorus of groans around the table pleases her, and she giggles happily, still leaning against Mycroft’s arm.

Greg passes her the hat. “Your crown.”

She looks a bit unsure, glancing around the table. _No-one else is wearing one yet,_ realises Mycroft. It is strange to see traces of self-consciousness in her. She is usually so confident.

“We will all put them on, in time,” he murmurs to her, and she nods against his arm.

Sherlock watches them, eyes narrowed.

“How was the panto?” asks Greg cheerfully.

Sherlock sighs, and rolls his eyes. “Inane.”

“Hey. I saw you shouting ‘he’s behind you’ and eating handfuls of sweets when they came your way,” laughs John.

“Rosie?” Greg grins at her.

“Captain Hook was my favourite,” she says, decidedly.

Greg laughs. “Really? I always liked the crocodile. Does that make us enemies?”

She giggles, and brandishes a cracker at him, wriggling in her chair. “On guard!”

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock –”

John puts out a hand, and looks sternly at Rosie. “Settle down, little Hook. And you,” he adds, rolling his eyes at Greg. “Stop winding up the pirate.”

Greg pulls an exaggeratedly sorry face at Rosie, who makes a show of sitting very demurely in her seat.

Mycroft’s starter is cured salmon with juniper cream. It is quite delicious. He keeps his gaze low, not participating in talk about the case.

“Uncle My?” whispers Rosie.

He leans down. “Yes, Rosamund?”

“Uncle Greg keeps looking at you.”

Mycroft feels himself flush. “Have I got something on my chin?” he murmurs, raising one eyebrow, smiling at her. He tries to ignore the way his heart is pounding. “Did you put a silly hat on me without me noticing?”

“I think he just wants to talk to you,” she whispers. Then, “I don’t like this.” She pokes at the game pie on her plate.

“Would you like to try some of this salmon?”

She nods, shyly, and he puts some on her plate.

“What about you, Mycroft?” asks Greg.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft looks up, but does not quite meet Greg’s eyes.

“Worst Christmas,” he prompts. “I’m assuming John and Sherlock’s is still the freezer.”

Sherlock snorts. “You have never experienced a Holmes family Christmas.”

“You might be about to,” mutters John.

“Yes.” Mycroft smiles thinly. “So many to choose from.”

“How about the one you spent in Qincheng, brother dear?”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “Ah, yes. Such fond memories. Thank you, Sherlock.”

_Political prison in Beijing, thanks to Caleb._

_It begins._

The waiting staff clear the starter.

Sherlock finishes his glass of wine, and smiles briskly at Greg. “An – _associate_ of Mycroft’s ensured that he once spent Christmas in detention in Beijing.”

“Oh.” Greg’s expression is complicated, clearly unsure what to say.

“Or so he said. Mycroft will do almost anything to avoid _family time.”_ Sherlock speaks the last two words in the voice of an American life coach.

“One cannot imagine why,” murmurs Mycroft, raising an eyebrow at his brother. _Perhaps you should say what you mean a little more openly. I do not believe the Detective Inspector has received whatever cryptic message you intended to convey._

“I’d have to say mine’s the year I spent manning the drunk tank,” sighs Greg. “As a PC. Bloody hell. Doesn’t bear thinking about.”

John laughs, and tops up Greg’s wine. “Talking of which.”

Mycroft holds Sherlock’s gaze. _It is untrue, of course. I imagine his worst Christmas was spent breaking up with his wife, after you revealed her infidelity._

A slight frown; a shade of disgust in the quick curl of Sherlock’s lip. _She lied to him. Repeatedly._ Then, what Mycroft has dreaded; what he should have anticipated. Laser interest in Sherlock’s eyes, a gleam of fascination and confusion. _You take his concerns to heart._

Mycroft blinks, heart hammering in his chest. He presses his lips together, and looks up. _So do you, brother mine._

Sherlock’s eyes are wide with surprise. He looks at John, at Rosie, back at Mycroft. _More, then? More than just…_

Mycroft takes a breath; flinches a quick frown. _Too soon to tell, brother. How should I tell?_

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise just a fraction at the sincerity of Mycroft’s question. He looks down at his plate as the waiter places a portion of pheasant in front of him.

*

Halfway through dessert, Mycroft’s work phone rings; the line that Anthea would never use unless it were an emergency. He sighs, and gets up from table.

After fifteen minutes, he asks Anthea to hold the line, threads his way back through the tables, and silently hands Rosie her carefully-wrapped present.

Back in his suite, he works for an hour, laptop and line to Anthea open the while.

By the time the hour is over, it seems a little less as though he may have to return to London immediately. There’s a quiet knock at the door of the suite.

“Anthea – please allow me to call you back.” He hangs up.

“Hi. I –” Greg’s eyes are wide. He looks a little anxious, perhaps. He takes a breath. “I know you’re busy – working – but I thought I could just…stay around for a bit. Read. If you didn’t mind.”

Mycroft blinks, then steps back. “Please.”

When Mycroft closes the door, Greg pushes him gently against the wall; kisses him, soft and slow. “We could go for a walk, later.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “Sherlock was not –”

Greg shakes his head. “No. No.” He kisses Mycroft again, less gently this time. “An’ you’ll have to let me know when you’ve got time for your present.”

Mycroft can’t suppress a smile. “I see. It requires time.”

“An’ concentration.” Greg grins. “Yeah.”

“I have lit the fire,” murmurs Mycroft. “Come and sit. I shall need another hour, probably.”

Greg nods, stealing one last kiss.

They settle by the cracking, snapping fire, and Mycroft takes up his laptop again; after a few moments, Greg’s feet find their way onto Mycroft’s chair, nestling against his hip.

Mycroft picks up his phone a moment, then watches as Greg digs his out of his pocket.

Greg grins, eyes sparkling with reflected flame.

“What?” asks Mycroft, innocently.

“Oh, nothing.” Greg shrugs. “Just matched with someone on Tinder. ’S’all.”


End file.
